They Call Me Pyro
by sunnysfunny
Summary: Pyro has been in a comatose state ever since Alcatraz. When he wakes, he realizes he has a lot of questions. The major question being: who am I? [Post - Last Stand]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This fic takes place after Last Stand. Everything else you need to know will be revealed within the story. Enjoy!

Chapter 1

They call me Pyro.

For someone that can't remember anything about himself . . . even that name seems out of the ordinary to me, whoever I am, that is. My eyes carefully scan the room full of people that are dressed in casual clothing. There are many faces, but I am unable to put a name to any of them. Should I be able to identify these people? When my eyes came across a pair of intense blue eyes belonging to a blonde male, my head and hands start to throb. I look away, unsure of where to place my gaze. I can feel the tension in the room and that every eye is still locked firmly on me.

- _Twenty Five Minutes Earlier _-

Darkness surrounds me. My eyes shift under my lids as I hear a persistent rapid beeping noise that won't go away. My eyes snap open as I deeply inhale and exhale—once in that manner—like I haven't taken a breath in a very long time. After that, the rest of my breathing remains steady and normal. My head remains on the pillow as I carefully turn it to the side in the direction of the irritating noise. I blink a few times to focus properly. I glower at the machine briefly, returning my head to its original position, the joints in my neck pop.

Is there something in my nose? Moving as little as possible, I try to touch my face, but I soon realize that I am incapable of such a simple motion because I have been restrained. Is this for my protection or theirs? I want to laugh, but I'm too weak. The bounds on my wrists seem like overkill because I doubt I could walk even if I wanted to.

I stare at the ceiling because that's my only option. I don't know how much time passes before I hear footsteps—I don't think it was long, but time is of no significance to me at this moment. Immediately someone hovers over my body and points a tiny flashlight in my eyes. '_Yes, they work_,' I think, annoyed. The beeping ceases, which I am _very_ thankful for. I assume they also check my vitals and other various medical routines, but I don't care to look. Again, they hover in my field of vision blocking the ceiling, but I can see their face clearly now: female with flawless pale skin, shoulder length brown hair and light blue eyes. I nod my head once when asked if I can hear her. She introduces herself as Dr. Moira MacTaggert and then tells me that she's going to raise the bed, so that I can sit up. The faintest smile forms on my lips because my body is eager to change position. I'm not sure exactly why, but nevertheless, it feels good.

Now I can confirm that there is a tube in my nose, part of that tube rests on my chest with a piece of surgical tape to keep it secure and the rest of it disappears under the sheets. I look at my wrists; nothing different from what I had gathered earlier. I study my hands next; they look . . . raw, and all of my fingers feel stiff. There are IVs attached to my right arm. I am able to move my leg—though it feels like sand bags are on top of it—as far as I want it to go. Usually when strapped down, you weren't given much slack or else you could strangle someone with the restraint. Why would I think of something like that? Was I capable of killing someone or was it just a logical thought? I consider the leg freedom as a good sign: only mental patients needed all limbs tied down. I guess I can cross that off my list; however, I'm going to discard that conclusion; maybe I'm wrong and . . . I am psychotic. My list just keeps getting bigger and bigger, doesn't it?

I look around the room. To describe it in one word: plain, besides medical equipment. I couldn't see outside of the room because all of the shades have been pulled down. Was it done for my privacy or so I couldn't see out? Maybe a little bit of both. The door was left open, but nothing is revealed except a wall. I look at Moira and have her follow my gaze to a small water pitcher. She inserts a straw and holds it out to me close enough so that I can reach the straw without moving an inch. I drink the cool liquid until I thought my stomach was going to burst. It feels great to get the moister back to my lips.

"You can step in now," she announces. After everyone—and I mean _everyone _or so it seems—settles into my room, she tells them, "He hasn't spoken a word yet, but he understands."

She must've noticed the confusion on my face, so she explains, "Pyro, you've been in a comatose state for quite some time. Your frontal lobe was hit _very_ hard at close range. Tests showed that your brain was functioning, but we weren't sure if there would be any permanent or temporary damage until you woke." She spoke softly and slowly so that I can comprehend everything being said to me.

What I learn, hits me like a freight train. The tolerance I had for the audience of strangers vanishes within seconds. My heart rate must've increased because the machine starts to beep again. Remaining silent, I motion for a pad and pen. I write two words—as best I can with limited mobility—in capital letters, turning it around for the crowd to read. When no one moves, I quickly add a certain punctuation mark to make it clear I was serious, though my facial expression should coincide with what I'd jotted down. I wasn't going to be ogled at like a wild animal in a zoo! I suppose this room is my cage for the time being, but I'm not an animal . . . Just like with every statement I make regarding myself it would be followed by a counter and this one is no different: maybe, just maybe, I was an untamable vile beast.

In the corner of my eye, I can see movement from Moira—I assume she signals them to leave. Why was my legitimate request ignored? They weren't doctors and they didn't seem happy to see me . . . but yet, she told them . . . Who are they?

I wait a few moments after the last human being exits, and I write down one question. She hesitates, but keeps her gaze as she answers, like a professional should. As the answer sinks in, my gaze drifts. She waits a few moments before asking, "Do you need anything?"

I shake my head, somberly.

She did exactly what I wanted her to do without having to ask—I want, need to be alone. Closing the door behind her as she left, I hear a beep indicating the door was shut and locked successfully. I must've missed that detail when the heart monitor was screaming as if I had dropped dead earlier.

I don't know much, but this is what I do know: they call me Pyro and I have been in a coma for 6 years.

* * *

**A/N**: I came up with this story as I was in bed, restless. I haven't had a new story idea in awhile (3 AM doesn't count), so I'm excited. I'm still working on current 'in progress' stories, but I had to get this out of my head and on paper. I know sometimes I write sort of cryptically so if you are confused by anything, just ask me to clarify.

As another fellow author put it: **reviews are love**, so please, please leave a review.

*Check my profile periodically for story progress updates.


	2. Time

**A/N: **Thanks for reading. Sorry for the wait!

**They Call Me Pyro**

**Chapter 2**

**Time**

* * *

It's been quiet . . .

I've been quiet.

For a guy who has been in a coma for 6 years, you'd think I would want to use my voice after being silent for so long. I will eventually, as I have a lot to say, but only when the time is right and it is not that time. Speaking of _time_ . . . hell, I don't know; I would have to guesstimate that it's been over forty-eight hours since I've awoken from my coma and I've been mostly out like a light. When I'm alert, I work on flexing my hands. I've lost count as to how many times I've made them into fists, but no matter what I try, they still feel stiff. When I get bored of that exercise I move on to tugging at the restraints. My upper strength has improved, but I still have to work on it.

The exercises keep my mind occupied. Otherwise the same two words go round and round in my head: s_ix years_. Six years! I want to shout at the top of my lungs, but I don't. I want to punch something, but I can't. Defeated, I sighed and let my head fall into the pillow.

After a few minutes pass; I hear a buzz towards the front of the room right before Moira came through the door.

She planted herself at the foot of the bed and asked, "How are you doing today, Pyro?"

I shrugged.

"I'm going to start lowering the dosage of the medications. Are you currently in any pain?"

My eyes traveled from her face to my left hand. I flexed it once and looked at her again.

"I'll get to that, but does your head hurt at all?"

I replied with a shake of my head.

"Do you remember anything from Alcatraz?" I guess my facial expression answered her question because she didn't wait for my reply, and then she said, "Both of your hands were subjected to frostbite. I'm afraid the tautness is permanent and they'll throb in cold surroundings. I wish I had better news, but on the bright side . . . they didn't have to be amputated."

"_Lucky me,_" I thought, rolling my eyes, and then I instantly realized that sarcasm felt right. It came naturally to me. Moira must've noticed the change in my mood as she silently observed me with those light blue eyes. It made me uncomfortable.

I lifted both of my arms as far as I could, using my eyes to do the asking.

"That decision is not up to me," she said, softly.

Frustrated, I made my arms go limp into the bed with a light, but audible thump.

Moira didn't offer an explanation and I didn't demand one. She picked up my medical chart, flipped between pages, and jotted notes. Her eyes were focused on the chart when she said, "I find it peculiar that you haven't spoken a word since waking up—" she paused and put the chart back in the bin hanging on the foot of the bed giving me her full attention. "What I'm trying to say is . . . you can talk when you're ready."

She gave me a warm smile and then walked over to the machines. I didn't pay attention to what she was doing as her visit brought more questions to the pile I already had. How the hell did I get frostbite especially in San—It Never Freezes—Francisco, and why would I go to Alcatraz?

Even though I assumed Moira decreased the drugs that flowed into my veins, I still drifted off to sleep. I can't say if I dreamt while I was in a coma and I haven't dreamt in the past few days; so I can't say if what I saw was a dream or flashes of memories . . .

When I woke, my body was covered in sweat. My wrists hurt. I could only deduce from the pain that during my slumber I was pulling on the restraints which dug into my flesh. Those have got to go. I was tired of thinking about questions I didn't have answers to so I went back to obsessing over facts—a fact that I didn't get the chance to really mull over until now.

_Pyro. _

_Fire._

_Pyro . . . short for pyromaniac?_

I sighed. I didn't see any burn scars and fire had nothing to do with frostbite. Then I thought, _Pyro could be a nickname_ . . .

My thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of the door. Moira walked in followed by a tall man wearing red sunglasses and behind him was a woman with white shoulder length hair and beautiful light brown skin.

Silence filled the room. It would've been awkward if not for the machines humming and beeping occasionally. I think they were waiting for me to speak, but I held my tongue. The nameless man and woman exchanged whispers. I was hoping my demeanor was neutral as that's what I was going for. I wanted to get out of the restraints . . . not have more put on, and something told me they made the decisions regarding them.

I was not enjoying this staring contest, so I rolled my wrist indicating that they should get on with it. I chuckled lightly to myself. Yeah, I'm a very, very busy guy.

The man tensed and said, "What's so funny?"

The white haired woman put a hand on his shoulder. This dude was all kinds of serious. In only a few minutes, he managed to rub me the wrong way.

"J—," she stopped herself short, "Pyro, we need to talk."

I nodded and then held up my index finger. I was ready. "Wh-who-are-y-you?" I managed to get out.

She shared a quick glance with Mr. Serious. When she turned back to me she said, "My name is Ororo Munro and this is Scott Summers."

_Eh, Mr. Serious suited him better._

"Do you know where you are?" Ororo asked.

"No clue."

"What's your name?"

"Py-ro?" Hell, even I wasn't exactly sure about that answer.

"That's the name you prefer, but what's your real name?"

"I was hoping you could tell me that. I believe you started to say it earlier, but stopped."

"Your name is John Allerdyce. You are currently in the medical bay of Xavier's Institute, which is located in Westchester New York."

Besides my name the rest didn't mean much to me, but it was better than nothing. I didn't want to miss my chance to ask, so I blurted out, "Can you take the restraints off now?"

Ororo looked at Scott and he nodded. Moira went to one side of my bed to remove the cuff and Ororo went to the other. Moira applied ointment to the open wounds.

Ororo crossed her arms. "What do you remember about your life?"

I lifted my arms and intertwined my fingers behind my head. "Absolutely nothing."

As if she had all of the answers we all looked towards Moira. "Any doctor would tell you the same thing as I'm about to. We'll have to wait and see. I couldn't even give you a percentage as far as your chances in regaining your memories. It's just one of those things . . ."

I didn't say anything.

"Physically once you're better . . . and you're in familiar territory, perhaps you'll start regaining your memory. Do you have any other questions, John?"

My lips formed into a grin, "Call me Pyro."

* * *

**A/N: **That's right, Scott is **not** dead! Anyway . . . who should Pyro's first visitor be?


End file.
